


let it go free

by helahler



Series: let go of your fears and your ghosts [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Beefy Bucky, Dom/sub Undertones, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6282832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helahler/pseuds/helahler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Talk to me," T'Challa says, voice quiet, the question unspoken between them: <i>what do you need from me? What do you need me to do?</i>  </p>
<p>Barnes breathes out slowly, and kneels.</p>
<p>"Please," he says. "I need you to make it hurt."</p>
<p><i>Make it hurt</i> can mean a lot of things, depending on the day, depending on Barnes' mood. Looking at him now, T'Challa knows it to mean: <i>take me out of my head. Make me forget. Even if just for a while.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	let it go free

**Author's Note:**

> minor warnings for: mentions of self harm, implied past violence.

When he wakes, the bed is empty, the sheets cold beside him. 

He sits up, blinking the sleep from his eyes; it’s the middle of the night. He slips from the bed and pads silently to the chamber across the hall, not pausing for clothing. 

Barnes is sitting by one of the wide window, curled in on himself, face turned away to look out into the calm night air. From this angle, metal arm obscured, half in shadow, he looks like just a man. The moonlight filtering in makes him look delicate in a way that daylight never could, all the broad hard naked muscle of him smeared into softness. He makes no movement as T’Challa steps in close, only reacting when he spreads a warm palm over the pale cool skin at the back of Barnes’ neck, Barnes leaning into the touch, his hair obscuring his face. He’s shaking.

The nightmares have been happening less and less, but there are still times like this, times when the sheer weight of all the horrors he committed as the Winter Soldier drive him from sleep, drive him to push himself, to hurt himself, sometimes. T’Challa looks closer, sees that the back of Barnes’ flesh hand is red with scratches from the metal arm.

"Talk to me," T'Challa says, voice quiet, the question unspoken between them: _what do you need from me? What do you need me to do?_

Barnes breathes out slowly, all of the rigid tension draining from him at once. He turns, brushing the hair from his eyes, and kneels.

"Please," he says. "I need you to make it hurt."

_Make it hurt_ can mean a lot of things, depending on the day, depending on Barnes' mood. Looking at him now, T'Challa knows it to mean: _take me out of my head. Make me forget. Even if just for a while._

“I can do that.” T’Challa brushes a thumb over Barnes' cheek, feeling that familiar thrill when Barnes turns his head, parting his soft lips and drawing T’Challa’s thumb into his mouth. He bites at it, a little, the barest hint of pressure; challenging. He looks up, lets T’Challa’s slick thumb slide free, his gaze dark with want: _come on._

“Gear up,” T’Challa says. “Let’s go.” 

+++

They step into the ring at opposite ends, Barnes clad in his mission uniform, stripped to the waist down to just a black undershirt, T’Challa in his Black Panther gear. 

The palace has two sparring rings: one in the main hall, for ceremonial events. The one they’re in now is private, reserved only for the Wakandan nobility to hone their skills. This space is for them and them alone, free from spectators. 

They circle each other slowly, careful, testing the waters. Every time they do this is different, feels fresh all over again despite the familiarity of it, as near as evenly matched as it’s possible for two people to be despite the vast differences in their training, in the ways that their bodies were shaped into weapons. It’s like two forces of nature coming together; the sharp thrill of it is heady, the air thick with it. Barnes licks his lips as if to taste it. 

In a flash T’Challa surges forward, claws out, and then they’re off: no more circling, no more holding back. This isn’t like fighting on a mission, all quick and careful precision designed to incapacitate. This is fast and dirty, bodies slamming against each other, fists, elbows, knees, the thud of impact punctuated only by their harsh panting as they begin to work up a sweat. 

Barnes is unrelenting in his attacks, the metal arm giving him a slight edge for strength, whirring as it comes up to block another blow from T’Challa’s claws. T’Challa is faster, more agile, perfectly balanced between offense and defense. Barnes kicks out, sweeping T’Challa’s legs out from him and pinning him down with his solid bulk. T’Challa waits until they’re pressed up close together before rolling his hips, the barest moment of distraction giving him time to throw Barnes off and get back to his feet. 

Barnes rocks to his feet, all coiled, brutal elegance, eyes dark. He launches himself forward, but T’Challa is faster, and this time when Barnes tries to take him to the ground T’Challa uses the momentum to throw him over his shoulder and to the ground. In a split second he drops down, flipping Barnes onto his belly and pinning him down with his thighs. Barnes thrashes, trying to buck him off, and for a second he almost manages it, his metal arm close to giving him the leverage he needs, until T’Challa gets a hand around the wrist and tugs it towards him with all his strength - he knows, now, that the arm has its limits. When he’s got it at just the right angle, pinned behind Barnes’ back, the whirring stops with a click as the arm locks into place - its one weak point. It’s the work of a moment to get the other wrist pinned alongside it. 

Barnes stops thrashing. His hair is dark with sweat, thin vest nearly in tatters from T’Challa’s claws. 

“How’d you know that was gonna work?” he pants into the mat. He’s pinked up all over from the adrenaline, the flush disappearing down under the remains of his vest. T’Challa slices it away with one careful claw, with just enough pressure to tease at the skin beneath it. Barnes shifts his hips, his flush deepening; he’s getting hard from this. 

T’Challa settles his weight more firmly, pulling his mask off before leaning in close enough to scrape his teeth over the shell of Barnes’ ear. “It is not Wakandan made,” he says softly, rocking his hips a little, letting Barnes feel the thick weight of his cock as it swells.

“Huh,” Barnes breathes, considering. “Well if this is your way of trying to get me to replace it, its -- working.”

“Stop that,” T’Challa orders, once Barnes starts to shift more insistently, trying to get some friction against the mat. He runs his free hand up Barnes’ sweat-slick spine, scraping his claws faintly across his shoulder blade, down his left side, feeling Barnes shiver at even that light touch. As a reward for being still, he tugs at Barnes’ pinned wrists to lift him just enough to palm his hand over the thick swell of a pec, dragging a knuckle over the nipple that he finds there and then lightening his touch to the barest brush of his claw over the very tip of it. Barnes presses his face into the mat and moans. 

T’Challa sits back, thoughtful. “You like this,” he says, switching his grip on Barnes’ wrists. He peels off his right glove with his teeth, leans forward to press two warm fingers to Barnes’ jaw, his intent clear. Barnes ducks his head and laves at them, his tongue gentle as he sucks them into his mouth eagerly, like he wishes it was T’Challa’s cock instead. 

After a few seconds T’Challa pulls his fingers free, reaching under and sliding them slickly across Barnes’ right nipple, circling it, tugging at it, getting mean about it. By the time he stops Barnes is panting open-mouthed against the mat, mouth bitten red. 

“Could you come from this?” T’Challa asks quietly. 

Barnes nods desperately into the mat, voice hoarse. “Yeah -- yes.”

“Do you want to?” T’Challa flicks at the nipple with his nail; Barnes sobs out a choked noise.

Barnes doesn’t answer for a long moment, panting harshly. He’s shuddering all over; another few touches and he’s going to come. 

“No,” he says, raggedly. “Not yet.” 

“Good,” T’Challa says in response, unlocking the metal arm and releasing Barnes’ wrists before getting to his feet. Barnes groans softly at the loss and rolls onto his back. His cock is thick and swollen between his legs, clearly outlined through the fabric of his pants. He catches T’Challa’s gaze on him, and flushes darker; he knows how he looks, half-naked and wanting while T’Challa is still fully clothed. He props himself up on the metal arm, licking at his split lip, brow cocked: _what’s next?_

+++

T’Challa leans forward, adjusting the water temperature with a few quick flicks of his fingers. The bath is more of a pool, taking up the entire room, the air thick with steam and the rich, warm scents of the various oils and herbs the water is infused with. 

Barnes emerges from the haze quietly, feet silent against the warm tile. The thundercloud bruising from the fight is already fading, the shallow slashes from the claws narrowed to thin red lines, his split lip healing. T’Challa turns, brushing a thumb over it, tender and apologetic: _I’m sorry;_ even when Barnes asks for it sometimes it can be hard to see.Barnes shakes his head, mouthing at one of the bruises he left on T’Challa’s neck: _don’t be._

Together they walk down the steps into the water, both sighing at the warm relief on tired muscles. It feels good; so good.

After a moment T’Challa leads them both to the water’s edge, sitting on one of the higher steps and guiding Barnes to sit down in front of him, back to chest. For a second they just rest there, letting the water soak in, pressed up against each other. Then T’Challa gestures with his hand and one of the drone-like things detaches from the wall and flies silently over to them, depositing three bottles in a floating capsule into the water beside them before flying away again. Barnes doesn’t even blink. 

“Tip your head back,” T’Challa says softly, unwinding a piece of tubing from the outside of the capsule. He presses something on it, and it folds out into something vaguely resembling a showerhead. Barnes leans back, sighing with contentment as T’Challa directs the warm water through his hair, rubbing with his fingers right at the spot behind Barnes’s ear that makes him go loose all over. 

“Feel good?” T’Challa murmurs, reaching for whatever passes as shampoo in Wakanda. Probably has nanobots in it or something, Barnes muses, nodding. T’Challa rubs slow circles over his scalp, lathering up his hair; it feels so _good_ , so unlike any other touch; no-one else has ever touched him like this; there’s no-one else he’s ever trusted enough _to_ touch him like this, to know when to be hard and when to be gentle. 

The thought has him trailing a hand from his thigh to rub at his soft cock, absently, focusing on the soothing motion of T’Challa’s hands, the solid warmth of his body. When T’Challa guides his head back to wash away the lather, Barnes jolts, a little, moving his hand away -- _Christ, in the royal bath?_ \-- only for T’Challa to lean in, knuckling gently at the tight muscle of his shoulder where the metal arm pulls tight. 

“You may continue,” he says, and then, voice low: “tell me when you are close.” 

Barnes flushes, but resumes his gentle stroking, eyes closing as T’Challa begins to run his fingers through his hair, carefully teasing out the knots and massaging scented oil into the ends to make it sleek. Once that’s done, he leaves it for a minute to let it soak in, instead reaching around and gently cupping at Barnes’ balls, feeling them swell in his hand as Barnes hardens further. Barnes is sensitive there, likes to be touched there, though he speaks the pleasure of it not with words but with his body, arching into T’Challa’s touch, breath hitching, the motion of his hand becoming more desperate. He curls his body, twisting to brush their lips together, the kiss starting off gentle and quickly turning wet and filthy as they begin to rock against each other, T’Challa pressing hot, sucking kisses to Barnes’ jaw, his neck, feeling Barnes twitch and tighten in his hand, gasping with it, and then, stilling, almost sobbing, “I’m -- I’m going to--”

In a flash T’Challa brings around his other hand to grip tight at the base of Barnes’ cock, feeling the powerful muscle of it jumping in his hand, Barnes’ entire body shuddering with the effort of staving off his orgasm. He groans through it, eyes fluttering shut, a hand reaching out for T’Challa’s knee, gripping at it, grounding himself with it. 

“Fuck,” he gasps out, when he’s safely back from the brink. He slumps back, nuzzling at T’Challa’s neck. “That was -- _fuck._ ” He smiles, presses soft happy kisses against T’Challa’s jaw, and then, voice quiet: “You’re good. You’re so good to me.” T’Challa doesn’t miss the questioning undertone of it, too: _why are you so good to me?_

T’Challa curls an arm around Barnes’ chest, pulls him in close, still shaking in the aftermath of pleasure: worlds away from hours before, curled in on himself in the darkness, sick with the horrors of what he’d been forced to do for all those years. 

“It is what you deserve,” T’Challa says softly. 

+++

They crawl into the bed, burrowing under the covers, Barnes’ hair fanning damp and sweet-smelling across the pillows as they trade kisses back and forth for a while. Eventually the slow burning hunger deepens into something fiercer, more desperate, Barnes rolling them both until he’s pinned beneath T’Challa’s heavy bulk, hands trailing down to T’Challa’s waist, guiding the motion of his hips, their cocks sliding against each other on each slow roll of his body. It feels so good, being skin to skin like this; Barnes could come from this; he has before. But this time -- this time: 

“I want,” he murmurs, pauses, tries again: “I want you to tie me up.”

He flushes, turning his face into the pillow. T’Challa stills. Barnes still finds it difficult to talk about what he wants; in his culture the topic is not often talked about so openly, and the decades he spent as the Winter Soldier - as a thing, incapable of wanting - have left scars that he has not yet fully healed from. 

T’Challa brushes his thumb over Barnes’ cheek, soothing, patient; waiting. 

“It, uh. It felt good. When we were sparring. Feels good now,” Barnes murmurs, stroking his hand up the smooth muscle of T’Challa’s back, “having you over me like this.” 

“You are sure of this?” T’Challa asks softly. 

Barnes finally meets his gaze, eyes dark with want. “Yes,” he says, voice cracking, raw, like something has broken open inside. “I trust you.”

**Author's Note:**

> me: "I probably won't write anything longer than [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6257230) until the film comes out"  
> me: writes nearly 2.5k of t'challa and bucky figuring some stuff out  
> me: how did this happen 
> 
> Okay, so I saw [this](http://samallcapswilson.tumblr.com/post/141042633319/samallcapswilson-yo-but-kink-negotiation) post about t'challa/bucky kink negotiation and was pretty inspired, and, uh, here we are. There's going to be a third part to this, since this felt like a good place to end this part and there's still some aspects to this particular interpretation of their relationship that I want to explore. 
> 
> Comments and feedback are really appreciated; let me know what you thought! <3 
> 
> My tumblr is [here](http://helahler.tumblr.com) (formerly neenaroo) - come yell at me about these two and sambucky -- and this fic is reloggable from [here](http://helahler.tumblr.com/post/141274704959/let-it-go-free-tchallabucky-barnes-explicit)


End file.
